


Smile My Past Clean

by imincognitobtch



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, But NO sexual content until he's of consenting age, Divorce, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hints of Family Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Modern AU, Pining, Rhys starts out as a teenager, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, now with art!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imincognitobtch/pseuds/imincognitobtch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is the strange man that lives across the hall. And Rhys is the boy with a mother that's barely home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fourteen Years Old

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grendelthegood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grendelthegood/gifts).



> Every chapter is one year, so Rhys starts out as fourteen in this but in the next chapter he'll be fifteen. So on and so forth. Jack starts out twenty five in this fic.
> 
> Just to preface this: until Rhys is of consenting age, there will be _no_ explicit sexual content. Just pining, angst, and a hell of a lot of unrequited love. 
> 
> Special thanks to [Erinchu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Erinchu/pseuds/Erinchu) for being my wonderful beta and partner in crime! She's the one who suggested the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGulAZnnTKA) for this chapter. :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All art in this fic is created by me.

He’s at it again.

The man that lives across the hall is sitting on the carpeted floor against his apartment’s door, head leaning back against the wooden frame. He might’ve been a statue if not for the steady rise and fall of his shoulders -- and yet there is a stillness about him that makes him seem almost otherworldly. Like art that's perched behind museum glass.

He’s been doing that for the past month now, coming out to sit there silently. And from where Rhys stands, he can see that the man’s eyes, as always, are closed, taking no notice of his presence.

Rhys’s hands twitch for something he can’t place.

Just as he had many times before, the other man never seems to take mind of the teenage boy passing without comment. Instead, he remains worryingly stone still, and usually, Rhys takes this to his advantage to stare his eye-full, but --

Today, something is different.

This time, something catches his eye. Soft light that floods through the window at the end of the apartment hall illuminates a sliver across the man’s tilted face, and Rhys realizes with slight surprise what it is.

A scar.

It’s somehow gruesome in how it divides through the bridge of his nose and tears down the length of his left cheek. The wound is fresh by the looks of the surrounding tender flesh, and Rhys finds himself rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away.  

Before, he'd glance for a few seconds, only to hurry into his apartment in fear of being caught. But now that he's actually allowed himself to  _look_ , the scar that captures the man’s face seems to almost fade away.

Rhys begins to notice the coppery hair that slicks quite prominently atop his head, the definite line of the man’s jaw slicing up to form high cheekbones, and, if he squints hard enough, he can see a strong nose underneath all the scarring.

Curiosity outweighing caution, Rhys approaches slowly, eyes fixed on the man still sitting dormant against his own door. He doesn't think. He's drawn, like a fish eyeing a piece of meat skewered on the end of a hook.

Dread fills him when his heel hits a particularly creaky spot on the floorboards.

Almost immediately, the man’s eyes shoot open, and Rhys finds himself freezing in fear as though he’s caught in the act of doing something he shouldn’t be doing. Thunder fills his ears.

But there is little time to contemplate this when he realizes that the man’s eyes -- heterochromatic like his own -- are staring quite piercingly at his right arm.

Or rather, the absence of one.

In sudden shame, Rhys turns away slightly to hide his limp sleeve, prepared to hear mockery or jest. At the very least there would be questions. Perhaps pitying glances and god awful attempts to show sympathy. He's been seen as a charity case at school all his life, and it somehow makes his chest constrict to realize that, at home, it would be no different

But the man makes no offer of insult or offense. He doesn’t open his mouth at all.

Instead, he looks at Rhys as though he's seeing a human for the first time and there's that twitch in his hand again, an ache that crawls through his skin. They stare at each other now, and Rhys is confused at how much he fears for the moment the other turns away. It was strange to be looked at for once. Not as a charity case, not as a source of amusement -- just to be stared at. As though he were any other human making his way towards his apartment door, schoolbag slung on his shoulder.

“Jack, are you done being impossible now?”

A womanly voice shouts through the door, shattering the moment; without breaking eye-contact, the man straightens up with an unmistakable quirk of his lips that stretches the scar over his tan skin.

Rhys returns to himself, still staring as the other calls back that he’s coming and dusts his pants off.

The man regards Rhys with one more glance before nodding only slightly and turning away to go inside.

Once left alone, the boy stares at the nameplate hanging above the doorbell where it reads “ _Mr. Jack & Mrs. Jessica Lawrence” _ across from him. He blinks away a clawing feeling that erupts in his chest, confused by it. But he doesn’t question it, simply turning around to go inside his own home.

 _Jack_ , the woman had said.

That night, Rhys recites that name in his head before he goes to sleep.

* * *

When Rhys thinks of his mother, he thinks of a mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

She always wears her lipstick red, and he recalls how her lips would move like it would on a snake’s. Hissing, simpering, and sharp as a blade.

Against the vibrant color of her lipstick, the rest of her is ice -- almost metallic in how they reflect Rhys’s fearful face right back at him. It's like plunging neck-deep in a pond of frozen water, only except her hold never stops constricting around him. Most days, she’s never home so it’s easier to pretend he lives alone, but some days -- like today -- she does return.

And as always, she’s never alone.

She slithers through the door with a strange man in tow, and she barely sees Rhys as he sits on a dining room chair, eyes glued to his dinner. The man will ask her why she didn’t mention she had a kid, but she just laughs in that hissing way she does, and drags him to her bedroom, fingers coiling around his arm.

Rhys often spends these nights in the living room because of how thin the walls are. Sometimes even that’s not enough, and he lays twisted into a ball with his one hand pawed over his ear at the sound of harsh giggling curling from under the gap of her bedroom door.

 _It'll be better in the morning_ , Rhys tells himself.

It's always better in the morning.

But when he counts to ten and opens his eyes, there's no bright light or divine force that carries him away. He's still on the couch of his mother's apartment. He's still himselfwhen he knows deep in his heart he wanted to be anything but.

The colors fade around him in the dim room and he notices that the night is a lot darker than he remembers it being a few moments ago.

He wonders if he'll smile tomorrow.

* * *

It’s almost a week later the next time Rhys sees Mr. Lawrence, and he’s coming back from grocery shopping.

His mother hasn’t been home in two days, and he’s grown tired of leftovers so he decides that a home-cooked meal is well-deserved. As he marches up the stairs to his floor, determined to drag all the plastic bags in his one hand, Rhys stops short at the sight of Mr. Lawrence in the action of pulling out his apartment keys.

The man stills when he sees the boy standing there, and they stare at each other for several moments. Rhys is half-inclined to ask what his deal was.

But Mr. Lawrence only regards him with a playful upturned raise of his lips, before looking down at the bulky grocery bags that Rhys insisted on carrying in one trip, “You look like you need some help, kid.”

Rhys suddenly feels like he wants to cry.

He doesn’t know where it comes from, but his knuckles turn white as they clench around the plastic bags. The boy says nothing when Mr. Lawrence approaches him, but he feels like screaming that he doesn't need anyone’s sodding help and he certainly doesn't need any fixing.

But as though he saw this, the man just pats him on the shoulder, and pulls an easy grin, “I didn’t mean it like that kiddo. It’s me that wants to help, not you who needs it.” He takes some of the bags into his larger hands, and Rhys lets him without complaint, “So none of that now, sweetheart.”

Rhys swallows thickly and he can’t explain the sudden sweat in his palms, but he ignores the telltale twitch of it and ambles towards his door anyway, dropping the bags he’s carrying to pull out his keys.

Mr. Lawrence waits patiently for him to unlock the door and Rhys tries very hard not to fumble with the keys in his one hand.

When the door opens, they enter, and Rhys is immediately consumed by embarrassment at his run-down apartment.

He shares it with his mom and they don’t have enough possessions to make any significant clutter -- but there's no ignoring the mold that grew on the edges of the living room or the drafty chill that seems to seep through the walls. Even though Rhys always tried to keep things neat, the flat never seemed to teem with life at all.

But Mr. Lawrence surprises him again when he says nothing and just follows Rhys into the kitchen to help him heft out items from the bags. They work silently together.

And halfway through placing a packet of pasta onto the counter, Rhys jerks when he remembers that he's supposed to say thank you at a time like this.

“I--er, thanks for this, Mr. Lawrence,” Rhys speaks softly. And it’s a wonder that the other even hears it with how quietly it’s said, but the man only gives him one of his amused smiles and raises a pointed brow at him.

“Just call me Jack. Mr. Lawrence is more my father’s style.” He says in a rumbling voice, before offering a friendly wink, “And the pleasure is all mine, kiddo.” 

Rhys presses his lips into a thin line but otherwise says nothing, too afraid about how his voice would come out. Suspicion blooms in his chest at the man’s easy personality, and he wonders at the hard line of Jack’s throat as he busily works through all the products in the plastic bags.

“So, you goin' to have pasta tonight?”

Rhys almost jumps out of his skin when Jack turns to him with a questioning brow, and he nearly throws his head off his shoulders with how quickly he nods his head.

He coughs, trying again, “Yes Mister -- ah, Jack.”

Jack sends a handsome smile his way and moves to bustle through the kitchen cabinets in search of a pot.

Watching him, Rhys feels his own mouth turn up as well.

* * *

Every night afterwards, Jack somehow seems to appear at his door with take-out or groceries raised in an offered hand, winking an easy, “How does chicken sound, kid?”

He doesn't seem to mind that Rhys wouldn’t offer a bright reply of his own, but Jack would seemingly grin all the more broadly when the teenager would step aside to let the older man inside.

Jack, it seems, is a very good cook.

Now accustomed to the space, he moves around Rhys’s kitchen in a confident bustle of sizzling oil and hot stove fire, whistling a tuneless song as he worked. The boy quickly ponders at the sudden warmth that fills the apartment but he shakes it away.

Rhys sits by the dining room table, watching him.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He felt himself stutter around the words slightly before he said it but he manages to mumble it out quietly. He’s fine by himself, he thinks. Jack is nice and his bright personality is near infectious, but it’s not needed.

He thinks.

The man in question pauses to turn and look at him. And again Rhys watches Jack’s healing scar lengthen along with his raised brow.

“Hey now, I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart,” Jack tells him and continues to work. _I’m not doing this because I pity you_ , Rhys hears instead. “I’m doing it because I want to.”

“Why?” Rhys feels himself say.

Jack stills again, but this time he doesn’t look back. Rhys watches the slope of his neck as it beads with sweat from the open fire.

“Because you remind me a lot of myself,” Jack replies simply, and Rhys’s fingers twitch again.

Unable to think of a response, the boy lets the matter go.

* * *

Rhys and Jack sit around the dining table, wolfing down lasagna leftovers that Jack made the other night.

Jack smiles around a mouthful of sauce before saying, “They’re brown and blue.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes,” Jack waves a hand over his own pair, “They’re brown and blue.”

Rhys shuffles uncomfortably in his seat before averting his gaze, suddenly feeling very small, “Um… yeah, I was born with them.”

Jack laughs, rich and booming, and the teen feels all the dread leave his stomach, “I like ‘em, kid, I’m not trying to antagonize you. They're better than mine anyway.”

“Better than…?”

“They’re fake,” Jack explains as he spoons another mouthful of lasagna in his mouth and chews thoughtfully, “Well, one of them is. I lost my right eye a long way back and had a glass one made to replace it.”

“Oh--that’s, um,” Rhys doesn’t know what to say. Some unknown emotion climbs his throat and he feels himself at a loss for words, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Instead of looking upset, Jack just wiggles his eyebrows and jokes, “What’dya think of them? Handsome, right?”

In Rhys’s defense, he tries to fight the redness heating up his cheeks, “Um --"

“And hey, if you think about it,” Jack continues in his booming voice, much to Rhys’s relief, “The two of us combined make one fully functioning human.”

Rhys couldn’t help it -- the absurdity of the man’s words had him choking back a laugh. He distinctly feels like a balloon swelled in his chest because he’s grinning back at Jack now with giggles of his own.

Jack is beaming at him.

* * *

His mother is sneering.

He can feel it without looking.

It’s evening when she finds him with his sleeve pulled up to his elbow as he works silently by the sink and she raises a brow. Rhys is quickly washing plates when she walks towards him, alone this time, but smelling strongly of smoke.

“Had company over?” She attempts at conversation and it’s a harsh sound compared to Jack’s booming laughter. He tries not to think of that.

He says nothing but turns his head slightly to let her know he’s listening.

“I’m going to be gone for a few weeks,” she continuous on, seemingly unfazed by his non-reaction as she turns to drop an envelope onto the dining table, “Here’s some money. I’ll be back soon, I promise.” He really hopes not.

When Rhys doesn’t reply, his mother just moves away to saunter into her room. He hears a movement of her packing some clothes into a suitcase, before she’s strolling out again with her indifferent air and shuts the apartment door behind her, her heels clacking along the wooden flooring.

He’s alone.

Closing the faucet, he draws away from the sink and wipes his one hand gingerly onto his jeans, before leaning back on the counter and passing an eye over the digital clock resting above the fridge.

6:43 PM, it reads.

 _Almost dinner time,_  he thinks.

Rhys waits for Jack’s firm knock on his apartment door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is it so far? :)


	2. Fifteen Years Old (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys is fifteen, Jack is twenty-six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All art in this fic is created by me.
> 
> This one is for the lovely Erinchu! I love her to hell and back, and wish her the best. xx
> 
> JUST TO BE CLEAR: There will be sexual tension between an adult and a minor, but mostly from Rhys's perspective, and Jack will not act on it. Until Rhys is of consenting age, there will be no explicit sexual content.

It’s Christmas.

Jack seems awfully determined that Rhys doesn’t spend the holiday alone.

“C’mon kid, open up!” A laughing voice booms through his apartment door, and Rhys has half a mind to ignore it and settle back into his warm blankets. The man remains insistent, however, “I know you’re in there! You’re not going to spend Christmas day on your couch!”

Rhys groans.

Hopping groggily onto his feet, he marches towards the door with a sour look on his face. Of all mornings for there to be an uninvited guest -- the _coldest_ out of the year.

“It’s barely seven, Jack--”

The scowl promptly drops off his face the moment he opens the door to reveal Jack fully dressed in winter clothes, hefting a Christmas tree covered in plastic on one good shoulder.

Rhys pauses.

“Are you letting me in? It’s kinda cold in the hall y’know,” Jack grins.

“Oh -- um, yes sorry,” Rhys mumbles sleeply and steps aside to let the man smoothly stroll in. Jack takes in the apartment with frowning eyes, looking strangely pensive.

“No decorations?”

“My family doesn’t really celebrate Christmas,” he answers sheepishly, turning only slightly to close the door behind him. He doesn’t say that his mother is barely home, but Jack already seems to catch on without him having to say it.

He does that a lot.

“That’s just damn unacceptable kid,” Jack tuts at him when the boy (who’s decidedly too tired for this conversation) moves to lie back down onto the couch, “Nonononono, get up! You’re not going back to sleep. We’re decorating this place, alright?”

“We’re _what_?”

“Wait here!” the man says before he drops the Christmas tree on Rhys’s living room floor and he’s already out the door, footsteps quick and purposeful. Rhys shoots him a look of confusion but stands as he’s told.

He’s only managed to step around the couch to examine the discarded tree when Jack’s running back inside with a box of Christmas decorations hoisted in both his hands. His face is red from either the cold or running to and fro from his apartment but plops the box down beside Rhys’s feet anyway.

“Alright, let’s do this!” Jack claps his hands together as he kneels down on Rhys’s carpet to sift through the different ornaments, the same silly grin still plastered to his face. He stops to look at the boy when he realizes that he doesn’t join in.

Rhys is pointedly staring at the box before him, “Aren’t you a little too old to be getting this excited for Christmas?”

“Aren’t you a little too _young_ to be a complete nerd?” Jack shoots back, looking up at him cheekily, before he frowns in thought, “Wait, how old _are_ you anyway? Like thirteen?”

Rhys rolls his eyes, “I just turned fifteen today actually.”

He goes to his knees as well to help Jack pull out some decorations when he realizes the other man isn’t moving.

Blinking, he looks up.

Jack is staring at him slack-jawed.

“It’s your birthday and you didn’t _tell_ me?” He shouts, looking mixed between incredulous and mildly upset.

Rhys fumbles with some baubles in his hand, “Oh, uh, was I not supposed to--?”

Jack is suddenly standing, pulling a hand under Rhys’s arm to heft him up too, “We’re not staying here. We’re going out today, alright? We’re going to celebrate your birthday and you’re going to enjoy it.” He pauses at the look of bewilderment on Rhys’s face, only seeming to grow angrier by it, “What were you going to do, huh? Sleep your fifteenth birthday away?” He looks quite furious and Rhys can’t fathom why.

But he can’t even get a chance to question it because before he knows it, he’s being pushed forward into the direction of his bedroom, “Go get changed -- and _quickly_. We’re going gift shopping. And we’re sure as hell gonna have dinner somewhere nice.”

He hears his bedroom door slam shut behind him and he’s suddenly alone in his room, staring at his closet mildly dazed.

“Kids these days...” he hears Jack grumble sourly through the door.

Rhys fights the twitch in his hand, but not the smile that works its way on his lips.

* * *

“What’s this?” Jack’s smirking at him, an eyebrow raised as he regards Rhys with amusement.

Rhys is standing outside the man’s door, a small basket of cookies offered in one hand, fighting the blush that heats up his cheeks.

“Um… they’re thanks for… the, uh, the other day. For my birthday.”

“They’re for me?”

He doesn’t know why, but that makes him blush harder, “No they’re...” he tries, but then sighs in defeat, offering the basket forward, “Yes, they’re for you.”

Jack looks positively elated as he puts out a hand to accept Rhys’s gift.

“Thanks, kiddo,” he clicks his tongue with an attractive wink, raising the basket slightly to show his appreciation.

But instead of turning away to return to his own apartment like he originally planned, Rhys just stands there, straining for something to say. He wants to show Jack how thankful he is. How much Jack made him feel like he mattered.

He opens his mouth.

“N-no one’s ever…” Rhys struggles for words, worrying at his lip, as his hand clenches uncomfortably at his side. He doesn’t meet Jack’s eyes, “Done that for me. No one’s ever… cared.”

He at one point wants to vainly argue that the coloring of his cheeks was due to the cold breeze but Jack already seems to understand. Letting out a huge breath of air, he instead says tentatively, “I guess what I’m trying to say is… thank you.”

Finally, Rhys raises his head to look Jack in the eye.

The other is staring at him with a strange intensity and the boy wants to ask someone why his own fingers are twitching again. But he pulls his hand to his side tighter and then nods jerkily.

“Right… so that’s all I wanted to say,” Rhys coughs, turning on his heel. He feels like crawling into a hole.

“Kid.”

He doesn’t know why, but his mind just strongly rejects even the thought of Jack seeing his face at this moment. So instead he pretends he doesn’t hear it and is already halfway towards his own door when Jack says louder, “Rhys, wait.”

Stuttering to a stop, Rhys pauses to turn to him with downcast eyes. There’s a thrumming in his ears he can’t explain, and he fists his hand more tightly, waiting.

“Yes?” He looks up.

It's almost unnerving how piercing Jack’s gaze is. There’s something about the look in Jack’s eye that tells Rhys he’s seeing something else other than a frightened fifteen year old boy.

He wonders what it means.

A sigh pulls him from his thoughts, and Jack is suddenly opening his door wider, “Wanna come in?” he asks finally, smiling as he gestures for Rhys to come closer, “My wife’s gone today and I’ve been playing through that new ECHOgame that just came out…”

Curious, Rhys glances only once at his own apartment door, before he turns to follow Jack inside.

* * *

Rhys watches with mild fascination as a zombie’s head explodes on screen.

For a brief moment when he’d entered Jack’s apartment, he felt slight trepidation thinking the man was expecting him to play (which would have been rather problematic given the lack of two hands).

But Jack just surprises him again when he simply takes a seat on his couch, gesturing for the boy to do the same, and amuses himself with simply sitting back and narrating animatedly to Rhys as he shoots enemies left and right.

Rhys shifts beside Jack on the couch with a respectable distance that feels like miles upon miles of trenches gaping between them. There’s something that scrapes against Rhys’s heart at that thought, but he pushes it down in favor of passing a curious eye over the inside of Jack’s apartment.

It’s much like his own, though well furnished and devoid of clutter. Picture frames of jubilant faces he doesn’t recognize alongside Jack’s hang on the walls, and he distinctly feels like the distance between them on the couch increases, though he can’t understand why.

One photo in particular though was in a rather large frame, hanging on the far-off corner like it was meant to be hidden from sight.

From where Rhys sits, he can discern a man (who he realizes belatedly is a younger Jack in a tux) and a woman posing on their wedding day. Both are smiling broadly at the camera as they hold each other, faces alight and beaming.

It’s only a bit later when he becomes aware of Jack staring at him and he tries to hide his surprise. With the worn, older Jack sitting before him, Rhys realizes that none of the Jacks in the photos have scars on their faces.

_Where did the scar come from?_

“You judging my apartment kid?” Jack grins, raising two eyebrows at him, though Rhys actually doubts there are any accusations in his words. The scar pulls at the man’s skin again and the motion has the boy momentarily distracted by the stretch of the other’s mouth, quirking in mirth.

Jack notices.

“No, I’m --” Rhys tries to cover up his halted response by coughing into his hand and turning away with a flush on his cheeks. There’s a knowing look on Jack’s face and his stomach isn’t strong enough to take it, “I was just looking at the photos. Um… nice wedding picture, by the way.”

Almost instantly, the man stiffens.

“Yeah, well.” This time, it was Jack’s turn to look away, eyes resolutely focusing back onto his videogame. He doesn’t continue further to explain, and Rhys doesn’t press despite the claw of confusion that reals through him.

_What did I do wrong?_

There’s a palatable tension between them now and the boy doesn’t know why it’s suddenly become so difficult to speak. His tongue suddenly feels wooden in his mouth and it’s a wonder he even gets the words out when he says:

“W-what’s the point of this game exactly?”

If Jack notices his poor attempt in changing the subject, he doesn’t mention it, “To shoot stuff I guess? It’s not really all that plot-driven if that’s what you’re wondering.” As if to prove a point, another zombie head is mercilessly shot into a spray of blood and brain matter. There’s no further elaboration other than, “It’s a fun way to distress when you live with your angry wife.”

Rhys winces, realizing why Jack was so averse to mentioning anything about his marriage. He stumbles for _anything_ else he could say, and settles for, “So… why’d you invite me in for video games?”

For a moment Rhys thinks that Jack is already fed-up with his attempts at small talk, but to his surprise, the man actually pauses the game and places the controller onto the coffee table gingerly so as not to break it.

“What do you mean why? I can’t invite you to my place now?”

“No, of course you can! Um--” This is the first time he’s been here, and he doesn't really know how to hold himself without looking like an idiot, “I guess it was just out of the blue? And it’s not as if I could join you in playing video games anyway.” He doesn’t mention the fact that he’s only got one arm or even refers to it, but the meaning is implied. The other understands.

“It’s not that big a deal really,” Jack says slowly. “Just thought you might need some company.”

At this, Rhys’s eyes take on a steely quality. He barely keeps the venom out of his tone when he makes a questioning sound, “Oh?”

Instantly, Jack turns to him, “What -- no, no, no, god kid, I didn’t mean it like that.” He stops, seemingly trying to find the right words, then rakes a hand through his hair before speaking again, “Just to get this out of the way: I don’t pity you. Never have, and I don’t think I will any time soon. So just… sorry if it ever seems that way, alright?"

Rhys pauses, feeling the anger subside as he swallows down most of the nagging questions circulating his brain.

“But you thought I might _need_ company?”

“ _Ughh_.” Jack runs both his hands through his hair aggressively and the boy sits back out of range, afraid to be hit by the thick limbs, “No--okay, fuck, I didn’t mean it like that.” He stops short, “Ah, sorry. Swearing. Force of habit.”

“It’s fine,” Rhys stops himself from reminding Jack that’s he’s already fifteen and waits for the other to continue.

“Right. So _that_ was terrible.” Jack shakes his head, “Kay so, I don’t think you _need_ the company or even need me here to… fix you or anything. I invited you in because I wanted you here.”

His tongue is suddenly wooden again, “You wanted me here?”

“Yeah. I mean, do I look like I’m rolling around in friends right now?”

Rhys wants to argue that, by the looks of the framed photos, Jack’s got plenty of friends already.

“Look,” Jack sighs at the look that must’ve shown on the boy’s face, “I’m not gonna pretend like I don’t like your company or anything, because I do. You’re kinda nerdy or whatever, but you don’t ask a lot of questions and you’re kinder than you give yourself credit for.” He pauses, “Plus, you got sass in you no matter how much you try to hide it.”

The boy stares at him for several moments, unable to properly think of a reply. Genuine or not, Jack is winning his approval with frightening speed, and he worries about what that means for him. What Jack _will_ mean to him. However, instead of replying, he burst out laughing.

“What?” Jack questions, but he’s smiling, “Something I said?”

Rhys shakes his head, fighting a grin of his own when he says, “No it’s just… your _hair_.”

Blinking, Jack reaches up to his head and realizes that his hair was standing in all directions due to his rough handling before.

“You look like a duck tail slept with a bird’s nest.”

“Like I said. Sass.” Jack huffs in fake offense, though clearly amused.

The teen barely has time to reply to Jack’s quip when the glint of mischief in the other’s eye has him pausing out of his amusement, “Um, Jack. Wait--”

“C’mere you nerd!” the man barks out a laugh, grabbing Rhys’s into a headlock and rubbing furiously at his hair with his knuckles, “Let’s see you try to be sassy now!”

Not realizing he’s laughing himself, Rhys elbows Jack with his left arm, rejoicing in the satisfying “oof!” he hears, but has little time to enjoy his momentary freedom when Jack mercilessly pounces on him again.

Letting out a stream of giggles, Rhys is nearly manhandled into the couch and he buries his face into the cushions to avoid Jack unrelenting hands messing up his hair.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Rhys is choking on his laughter when Jack moves his hands down to tickle along his belly, “Ja -- stop!” It’s difficult to fight off two offending sets of fingers only one-handed, but Rhys manages to catch one of Jack’s wrist just as the man straddles his waist.

It proves futile however to keep one hand captive, when the other simply roams freely around his belly, having him twisting around on the couch.

Rhys sees an opening when Jack reaches up to run fingers along his rib cage, and turns the tables when he let’s Jack’s other hand go to push the man roughly off the couch. He doesn’t foresee, however, that Jack would grapple against him in his fall and drag the boy down with him.

They land in an awkward mess of tangled limbs, and it takes a while for Rhys to realize he’s breathing heavily against Jack’s neck.

His heart stutters to a stop as he pulls up to stare down at Jack lying beneath him now on the living room floor, sharp eyes staring up at him.

But Jack’s not making a move to do anything about it either. He thinks in the back of his mind that this line of thought is dangerous. He met this man not even a year ago, and now he’s on the floor with him --

Rhys’s fingers twitch again and he feels his face flush for reasons unrelated to the tickling earlier.

He wants to say something, to ask what’s going on with his heart. But instead, he can only stay silent as he watches Jack’s lips part -- evidently to say something about their positions -- but is torn back into reality at the sound of keys jingling on Jack’s apartment door.

“Jack? Are you home?” a female voice echoes through the walls

Rhys doesn’t miss the look of guilt that flashes through Jack’s face.

“Jack?”

As if realizing what their positions could mean, the boy nearly falls backwards in the motion of throwing himself off Jack. His heart’s thumping in his ears right now, and he wonders if everyone in the hall can hear it.

“Yeah, I’m in the living room sweetheart,” Jack makes to sit up, carding careful fingers through his hair to perhaps smooth it out. Rhys’s teeth clench. _Sweetheart_.

Of course. She’s sweetheart, and he’s kiddo.

What the _hell_ was he thinking?

“Oh good, I’m starving from that doctor's appointment --” The voice stops, and Rhys sees Mrs. Lawrence stop at the sight of him, eyebrows scrunching up in confusion.

She’s still every bit as beautiful as she was in the picture hanging on Jack’s far wall -- every bit as vibrant and _sweet_ as their wedding day. The only noticeable difference is the prominent swell of her stomach.

 _She’s pregnant_.

Rhys suddenly feels sick.

“Kid, wait --” Jack obviously sees something in the boy’s eyes, because he makes a step forward, hands now cautious unlike how they were only moments ago. But Rhys doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t want to hear it. He’s too far gone into being angry at himself for thinking -- thinking _what_ exactly? That this would be different?

Jack and his wife were having a baby.

He doesn’t _belong_ here.

The thought carries him all the way past Mrs. Lawrence, and out the door.

“Rhys!” Jack calls, chasing after him, and catches his arm right as he’s about to pull his keys out of his pocket, “Rhys, what’s gotten into you?”

“Homework,” the boy lies through his teeth, wanting to be anywhere but near Jack, “Got lots of stuff to do. Nerd, remember? Still in highschool.”

Somehow, those last words seem to stop Jack completely, and his arm promptly drops off like it weighed far too much to raise again. Rhys fights the twitch in his hand and tells himself that he doesn’t miss the contact. He doesn’t.

“I’ll come by later okay?” Jack says when he notices that Rhys is already reaching for his keys again, “Or tomorrow! Just -- I’ll come by to make you dinner, I promise. Okay?” He waits for an answer but there’s none, “ _Okay_?”

“Okay.”

Satisfied, the man nods to him, making sure to catch the other’s eyes before he turns away towards his own apartment, probably to talk to his wife about why the hell the neighbour’s _kid_ was in their living room. Rhys doesn’t want to think about it.

What he does think about is the other’s promise. It’s probably the only thing that keeps him grounded while he wrestles with his keys and jams it into the lock. When he stumbles through the door unsteadily, he tells himself he can do this. He’ll be okay. When Jack drops by later he’ll be back to normal, and it'll be as if none of this ever happened. But Rhys never gets the chance.

Because Jack disappears for nearly two months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys like the art? I'm gonna try to make it a re-occurring thing during every chapter. Hope you guys like it so far!


	3. Fifteen Years Old (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys is fifteen, and Jack is twenty-six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think of this as chapter 2.1, somewhat of an in-between before Rhys turns sixteen on the actual chapter three. I couldn't logically make Rhys sixteen in the timeline I had when Jack disappears for only two months, so I had to make 2.1 chapter. 
> 
> I had a lot of trouble trying to make this chapter the same length as the others and _still_ have Rhys turn sixteen, but it just wasn't working. So I'm deciding on posting this as a "part 2", because I owe it to you guys to update. 
> 
> Hope you all like it!
> 
> Note: Art will be added later

Two months.

Jack disappears for two whole months.

On the first day, Rhys waits outside his door with a bag of food in his hand, thinking it’d be a nice gesture to cook something for the other man. When no one answers, he tries to tell himself that Jack might not be home yet. He tells himself a lot of things.

On the third day, he knocks and rings the doorbell several times, trying to squint his eyes through the peep-hole lest the man be asleep on his couch again.

On the first week he notices that the Lawrence mailbox downstairs is overflowing with letters, some envelopes even begin to pile neatly beside it, untouched. Week two is when he starts to notice that no one ever leaves or enters Jack’s apartment except his wife who avoids him pointedly whenever she sees him.

He at one point stops Mrs. Lawrence on her way down the hall and asks where her husband is but she just clicks her tongue at him, and regards him with thinly veiled distaste. She tells him, “Don’t even think about it.”

“Um… pardon?” 

“He’s got a habit of picking up strays. Don’t think you’re anything special.”

She walks away from him, and Rhys lets her. A few days later, even Mrs. Lawrence is nowhere to be found. Every time Rhys gets back from school, he half expects to find Jack seated against his apartment door again, waiting for him. But he's not, and Rhys is starting to get used to the taste of leftovers heated in the microwave.

After the first month, Rhys stops checking to see if Jack had cleared out his mailbox or wiped off the layer of dust that started to build up on his apartment name plaque. Two months, and he decides to just forget.

Because after all, Jack is a married man. He must have other important things to be doing. Other things that don't involve making dinner for the fifteen year old kid living across the hall. 

There’s something about it, Rhys thinks, something about it that makes him feel worthless. Meaningless. But why _does_ he feel worthless?

He wonders.

* * *

He's thinking about Jack again as he sits alone on the couch, pouring over his homework.

It's been happening a lot lately, and not even the ache in his chest can tell him why the man keeps resurfacing in his mind whenever he sits on the brink of sleep. Some days it infuriates him to the point of crying and some days he doesn't once look at the door expecting someone to knock. On those days, its easier to pretend that the ache isn't there -- but what's harder to ignore is that same twitch in his hand that sometimes comes back when he's in the shower or lying alone on his bed.

And it's always Jack who's on his mind when it happens.

So when he finally hears a knock, firm and purposeful, against his apartment door, he already knows who it is. 

He almost doesn't hear it from the blare of the television blasting in his living room, but it's the same knock he expected to hear two months ago. 

Dread fills him as he turns his head to stare at the entrance, not wanting to hope. 

“Hello?” He calls out as he turns down the show he keeps on in the background, ignoring the tight knot that starts to pool into his belly. His mother typically walks in without preamble or warning, and the only other person who would ever come to visit him is--

“Rhys? You in there?”

The boy bolts up off the couch and bounds towards the door, knocking his notebook and pencil onto the floor in his haste. His hand nearly touches the knob when he remembers.

Stray.

Don't think you're anything special. 

Two months.

He stops.

"Are you still there? It’s me. Listen, I've been--"

He doesn’t listen. He slowly turns to head back towards his couch, eyes unseeing as he calmly picks up his discarded math homework. 

When he goes to sit down again on the couch, he turns the volume up to maximum.

* * *

The next day, there’s a sticky note stuck to his door when he gets back from school, an ill-shapen message scribbled on it in pen.

_I’ll be in the city all day today. Listen, I’m sorry about--_

Rhys averts his eyes and heads inside.

* * *

Avoiding Jack almost becomes second nature.

Rhys recognizes the pad of the man's shoes against the floorboards of the hall, the sharpness of his knocks, the shadow of two legs showing from under his apartment door. He knows to enter a little later into his apartment when he gets home from school, and he even takes the longer route around the block so as not to run into Jack when he goes to the local supermarket for groceries.

And Jack does try to talk to him. The man almost caught him once when he spotted Rhys trying to duck out of sight down the stairs. He gives chase, but eventually loses Rhys who manages to lose him in a cross-roads of one of the halls. Why does he keep trying? Why doesn't he just let it go?

This is for the best. After all, he's trying his damndest to forget, it's only a matter of time before Jack gives up on him completely and disappears again. 

It's only a matter of time.

He hopes.

* * *

He is grabbed just as he rounds a corner of the hall.

Rhys instantly goes rigid, eyes widening as the imposing grip clamps tightly around his arm.

“Oh! Shit sorry, shouldn’t have grabbed you like that--”

He doesn’t need to look up to know who’s speaking. All at once his heart stutters and he feels the same twitch that haunted him for nearly two months, he tells himself he’s f--

“You okay?” Jack’s face comes into his field of view and he blinks away the fog from his eyes. As if realizing he was still holding on, Jack drops his arm, “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you kiddo.”

“Was there anything you needed, Mr. Lawrence?”

Jack stiffens at the use of his surname. Rhys glances at his door on the other side of the hall, thinking.

“Okay… look, I know you’re kinda mad--”

He snorts.

“Yeah alright, ‘kinda’ may not be the best word, but let me explain.” Jack tries to catch his gaze, but there’s something in Rhys that fights at the thought of that, “I’ve--I’ve got some groceries in my kitchen. We could… uh, I can cook dinner for you again tonight.”

A rejection sits on Rhys’s tongue and he thinks for a moment that he should just walk away without a word. But Jack looks at him pleadingly -- beseechingly, like he’s holding onto the last life-jacket in the middle of the ocean.

It’s almost an eternity when Rhys drags the word out of his mouth.

“Okay,” he says.

* * *

Jack’s getting divorced.

The man tells him so in an indifferent tone when he enters Rhys’s kitchen, the promised bag of groceries held in one hand. Rhys blinks slowly, maybe too slowly because when he opens his eyes again, Jack is already pulling out a pan from his cupboard.

“Divorced? You and...”

“Yup,” Jack answers, popping the ‘p’ as he leans over to squint at the knobs on the stove, “Been in and out of a court room for two months now.”

 _Oh_ , Rhys thinks.

“Um, I’m sorry,” he finds himself mumbling quietly, “I shouldn’t have -- you were trying to talk to me all this time --”

“Hey,” Jack says firmly, turning so he could pin the boy with his eyes, “It’s alright, kiddo. Really. I should have told you I’d up and vanish like that. Jessie hasn’t been… well, I guess you could say living with her while filing divorce papers was a friggin’ mess. So I stayed with my brother for a while.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah, name’s Tim. Sweet guy. Not as good looking as me though,” Jack laughs as he reaches for the oil sitting on Rhys’s counter, “You should meet him sometime. The guy will love you for sure.”

Rhys worries at his lip as he watches Jack bustle about. The scene feels almost foreign to him now after two months without the man’s company, yet he stands rooted in the middle of the kitchen, not telling Jack to leave.

“But um…” Rhys tries and falters when he sees Jack peer over his shoulder to look at him. He grips his hand against the front of his shirt, “Your wife… um, Mrs. Lawrence. Isn’t she pregnant?”

“It’s fine, just call her Jessica -- she isn’t going to be a ‘Mrs.’ anything for very long.” Jack pauses, obviously buying for time as he pushes around an explanation in his head, “It’s... kinda complicated.”

“You’re leaving her even though she’s pregnant?” Rhys asks. He doesn’t know how to feel about that being an only son from a single mother.

The man sighs, “I’ve known Jessica since high school. We met at the end of our freshman year,” a sad smile erupts on his face and Rhys wants to wipe it clean, “Fell in love -- or well, how ever in love two fifteen year old kids can get. She was full of life then, sassy and all. I dunno how someone could love the way she talked back to teachers, but I sure did. We started dating in our second year.”

Rhys is now seated on the dining chair, watching as the lines on Jack’s profile deepened. He looks older now, less like Jack and more like Mr. Lawrence. Rhys decides he doesn’t like it.

“Married straight out of highschool, found a place of our own, and tried our best to get by,” Jack shrugs, eyes glued to the frying pan, “Obviously needed to bring in the cash, so I dropped out of college and started working. I… wanted Jessie to become anything she wanted.”

“You gave up college?”

“Yeah. You do a lot of stupid things when you’re in love.”

Rhys immediately thinks about how he waited outside of Jack’s door for weeks, but shook away the thought.

“Guess so,” the boy replies evenly. “What happened to make you… why are you not on good terms anymore?”

Jack’s resounding chuckle holds no mirth, but the boy isn't inclined to point it out, “You live with someone for seven years and, you know, things just pop up. Small disagreements, small irritating things that you used to find cute. Small things that turn into big things. Her sass and back-talk turned into shouting matches. And hey, I’m not innocent here either, I’m as much to blame as she is, but…” He shakes his head, “Guess we were just two strong personalities that clashed and refused to admit to wrong.”

He continues with a sigh, “By the time we both got old enough to be patient with each other and deal with things, it got too… difficult. There was too much history, too much that’s been said that shouldn’t have been. Every conversation turned into a fight and...”

Jack trails off, and Rhys sees something flash in the man’s face. Like an old hurt that’s suddenly resurfaced.

“She didn’t look at me like she loved me anymore. She didn’t look at me like…” He stops, and then clears his throat, “Anyway, her being pregnant was another mess. We wanted to fix what we had so badly, but in the end, it was Jess who pushed for the divorce. She wanted it over and done with as soon as possible but the baby made everything more complicated.”

“I understand,” Rhys wants to reach out and touch Jack’s shoulder. He wants to clutch the fabric of Jack’s shirt and hold it against his own.

“So… yeah, I’m sorry for not being here kid,” says Jack, “I’m sorry about leaving out of the blue without telling you. Jessie's due this month, so we’ve been hassling over who gets custody over the kid.” Another sigh, “It’s all just been a mess.”

“Did you win the case?”

“No, the hearing happens two weeks from now. I’ve been working with a lawyer to try and win. Hopefully,” Rhys can hear Jack clench his teeth, “hopefully the kid gets passed to me. Jessie’s a full-time student and she doesn’t have a job yet. And she’s got all this complicated shit with her family. She can’t…”

“You want to be the one to raise her.”

Jack pauses.

“That’s right, kiddo. I want to raise her.” He looks at Rhys now, and then gives a self-deprecating smile, “Might as well do something right for once.”

They continue on in silence after that, Jack cooking, and Rhys watching with attentive eyes.

 _What about me?_ Rhys thinks. _You did right by me._

* * *

Something’s wrong.

This is the first thought that pops into Rhys’s head when he sees the small bundle in Jack’s arms.

Jack is standing right outside his door again, and, for perhaps the second time since Rhys has known him, he looks utterly lost and devoid of his usual explosive presence. A visible weight slumps his shoulders forward, and the boy wonders how a man his size could look so small.

Seemingly lost in thought, Jack doesn’t notice Rhys approach from behind him until the boy is already close enough to see that the bundle in the man’s arms is a baby girl, wrapped tightly in a blue blanket. Her face forms a chubby pout, eyes shut tightly against Jack’s chest, and, from this angle, it almost seems like Jack is trying to shield her away from the world.

“Jack?”

The man slowly blinks, and turns back to look at him over his shoulder, before offering a tired smile, “Hey there, kiddo. What’re you doing out?”

“I was just finishing homework in the library,” Rhys says with a curious tilt of his head, eyes still staring at the baby in Jack’s arms.

At this, the man’s eyes give a feeble twinkle, “You’re such a nerd.”

“Yeah, well,” Rhys flushes, “What’re you doing staring at your door? With…” He doesn’t know what to say so he just gestures at the baby.

Jack sighs, and from where Rhys stands, he can feel the sound vibrate through his chest, “I dunno, kid. Guess it’s just weird to come home after everything that’s happened.”

“Everything that’s--?” Rhys starts, only to stop when he notices that the nameplate above Jack’s doorbell is finely polished, and now reads only the name “Mr. Jack Lawrence.”

He stops dead.

“Yeah, it’s all complicated. This, uh, this here’s Angel. She’s my baby girl,” Jack lowers his arms, slowly as not to wake Angel, and smiles a smile that crinkles his eyes, “Isn’t she adorable? Quiet though, I just got her to finally sleep in the cab ride over.”

Rhys is scared to ask, “And Mrs. Lawrence?”

At the mention of his wife, Jack visibly stiffens, and for a moment, Rhys thinks this is it, he’s overstayed his welcome. But the man just puffs out a sigh, and gives a shake of his head.

“Come on inside, kiddo, I’ll tell you all about it.”


End file.
